Luxuriating in the Pullmanesque accomodations of a Boston-bound streetcar as he was whisked at a mile-an-hour rate toward Mass. Station, the young Junior was deeply immersed in melancholy thoughts as the beautiful vistas of Central Square sped smoothly past his eye. He was brooding about how white snow can become black so quickly, about Necco Wafers as the orange monster zoomed past the candy factory, and about the impressive sheen on the back of all motormen's pants, when he suddenly became aware that he was being examined and discussed by the two persons seated directly in back of him.

He's a Tech boy, the feminine voice said. Naw, Harvard, growled a deep basso, the owner of which the Junior instantly disliked. Howja know? she asked. His hat, he replied. The Junior's cars became red. Say, his hat's worse'n yours--that don't mean nothing, she said. The Junior squirmed and tried to look around without turning his head. Peasants! It was his best hat.

Cummon now, howja know he's a Harvard? she insisted. Well, you really wanna know, huh? he said. I tell ya then. See this car? Every seat in it is taken, ain't it? Everybody's sittin that's got a place to sit. But there's still one vacant seat left--the one next to HIM. That means he's a Harvard for sure.

You're such a judge of human bein's, Sol, she cooed.